


Quiet Voices

by konoyo



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Healthy Coping, M/M, Moving On, Post-Relationship, When I say major character death I'm not kidding this time, Wistful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-23 22:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17088599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/konoyo/pseuds/konoyo
Summary: Detroit, January 2108.“Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”― Lucy Maud Montgomery





	Quiet Voices

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by @epxxxlutely on twitter's what comes after. For Prompt and Sana. Sorry not sorry for making you sad.

The house is quiet, still and dreaming. The windows are shuttered tight against the bright blue sky, folded it on themselves. Waiting. Rooms are dim, silent, a cobweb lingering in an untended ceiling corner. Dust blankets the floor and the hard edges of furniture, soft and comforting as the passage of seconds clicks quietly away. The little aches and pains of wood and metal are the only sound to mark the time. It's been a while.

The hiss of security disengaging snakes through the quiet living room, curling gently around the legs of the couch and settling on the carpet. The click of tumblers tiptoes through into the kitchen, laughing joyously as the bolt snaps back and the hinges creak as the door pushes open, letting the glowing gold sunlight spill across the floor, warmth running into the cracks and crevices. A breeze rushes in, brushing its fingers along curtains and walls, motes starting their quiet little dance in the light beams. They part easily around the little shadow that rushes through among them, pirouetting merrily around it. Happy snuffles and the ebullient little clicks of paws on hardwood coast along the walls. Life has returned to the old bones of this house, at least for a little while.

Connor stomps the snow off of his shoes then steps quietly across the threshold, into the warm embrace of wood and plaster. The door swings closed behind him, letting the hallway fade into twilight again. It really has been a while since he's been home. He leaves his suitcase on the floor by the door. He doesn't need it right now.

Step by step, he makes his way into the living room, drawing back the curtains. Light spills, warm and joyous around him, the room bright with dancing light as the sunlight refracts off the glass coffee table. He starts the automated vacuum with a thought, one that takes him a minute to formulate. It may be easier to just bend down and press the button at this point but old habits are hard to break, even for androids. It's why he opens the window, letting the breeze back in to rustle through the curtains and play with his hair, pushing the forever loose strand away from his forehead, then back to the front in a playful greeting. _That's better_ , a memory says against his ear, rough and warm. _Now you can breathe in here._

Connor smiles and follows the sound, letting the memories play as he walks. They're not all intact. The facts are still there, of course. He could list off years of weather reports if he wished to. But the reconstruction software has suffered. The audio is gone from some, just the images moving through the space. Some skip or the playback is wrong. Time hasn't been gentle with Connor. Sometimes the projections walk through furniture instead of around it, sometimes they are misaligned, passing just to the side of door openings. But it doesn't matter. He wants to remember. The living room is different than what it used to be back then. He has updated the furniture, the slumpy, longsuffering couch replaced with something a little more spacious and modern, a sleek glass coffee table resting on curling metal feet, still refracting rainbows in the sunlight. But there are plenty of memories here, too. People, androids gathered to talk or watch a game, to delight in each other's company. Sometimes just two or three people and a quiet conversation. A collection of memories that is worth seventy years now. They are good ones, but not the ones Connor wants to focus on right now. It's an anniversary and he wouldn't want to miss it.

Cherish greets him in the kitchen, waiting happily by the food bowl, her tail beating out a happy rhythm as Connor goes to fetch the food. She's a good dog. The best dog. They all were. They all still are.

Connor stoops down to present her with her bowl then fills a watering can at the sink. The guest room is his next stop. It wasn't always the guest room, of course. Once upon a time, it was a little boy's room, a little boy who's books and toys Connor helped categorize and put into boxes so they could be given away. Connor has the stories of that little boy tucked safely away in a space he seldom visits, fearing that the data will degrade into nothing if he does so too often. Those memories are not his and he does not keep them for his own sake.

Now, the room's curtain is drawn and the air is dim, yet full of fragrance. The air here is cleaner than in the rest of the house, despite his month long absence. Several shelves line the wall, filled with a couple of old and yellowing books but mostly draped in delicate green vines, long variegated leaves. His desert rose has bloomed while he was away, delicate pink blossoms reaching towards the diffuse light from the window. Connor throws open the curtain, revealing the sky to the many dark green upturned faces then carefully checks the dampness of the soil in each pot, watering where he needs to. He takes special care with the little japanese maple sitting proudly in the center of the window sill, red leaves glowing against the bright blue of a cloudless sky and framed by delicate patterns of frost on the glass. Her age shows in the gnarled whorls if her trunk, small but resilient and he loves her all the more for them. She'll need to be pruned soon, shaped so she remains small enough to fit in her pot, but there's something charming about the way she's grown just a little bit wild.

Some of Connor's collections take up space on the walls, scans of butterflies and framed timelapses of the Eiffel Tower and the White House. It's not as much of a memorial as it used to be but there are some things Connor still keeps around. A small teddy bear sits in the corner of one of the shelves keeping an old, once rarely used guitar company. A small still picture is propped up in its frame beside them.

Once the plants are watered, Connor steps out of the room, leaving the door open for the little vacuum to do its job.

Cherish has already finished off her meal and she weaves happy little circles around Connor's legs as he walks, concluding with a race along the whole perimeter of the living room. She's so happy to be home. Connor opens the sliding door to the backyard and she rushes out cheerfully, leaving smudged footprints on the untouched snow. It's cute and Connor watches for a moment, basking in the breeze that stretches from the door to the open window on the other side of the house. There's a memory of a big drooling dog loping along beside her, keeping up only through the length of his strides. His jowls flap happily as he runs but he's leaving artifacts and errors behind him until he's nothing but a wireframe. Connor sighs and looks away. He's played that memory too much.

He leaves the door open for Cherish to come back in and heads into the kitchen. He runs his hand along the edge of the round table, another relic of an old time. He doesn't really need it, except for the occasional human guest, but they don't usually expect food when visiting. It's a shame, really. He misses cooking. Mornings filled with smiles and the crackle of bacon grease in the pan. Gentle foot nudges under the table and the quiet clink of silverware drift through his mind and he sits down without thinking.

He remembers Hank's hunched figure over this same table, half moon glasses sliding down his nose as he flipped through holographic pages. The way he gently pointed out the ‘Do Not Resuscitate' order in his will. The days Connor had spent arguing with him and the way Hank refused to budge. Connor had sulked for weeks but eventually, eventually he relented. It was what Hank wanted and the order stayed. Connor wanted to make Hank happy and if that was the last... Well... He could never say no.

So when the time did come, he cradled Hank's head in his arms, both of them collapsed by the kitchen counter, their foreheads pressed together. Both their faces were wet with Connor's tears as the paramedics came to take them both away. He listened to Hank's pulse fade, his hands turn just as cold as Connor's were. He stayed with him until the very end. But he kept his promise. No matter how much it hurt him, he kept his promise.

It's quiet in the kitchen and Connor pillows his head on his arms. That is not the memory he wants but it had ceased to hurt as sharply as it had in years, decades prior. There's wisdom in what Hank wanted. A wisdom in letting go. In fading out. He can see that now. He can get upgrades if he wants to. He can see the turn of a century if he wants to. Perhaps he will. But it's been a long time already.

He remembers the smell of pancakes, the noise of the TV from the living room as the news plays quietly and no one is paying attention. Evenings where several people are crowded around the table, playing cards or telling stories. Hank teaches him to dance and tells him he's made of left feet. Their bodies are still pressed together and Connor can't really say he minds. They kiss and Connor pushes his fingers through Hank's hair, all ideas of dancing forgotten. Connor teaches Chloe how to dance, years later, passing on that knowledge and smiling as she laughs and twirls with him.

Cherish trots back inside and Connor stands so he can towel her off. Her fur is long and hard to dry but he manages, finally letting her escape the towel. She yawns indulgently and scampers off, leading Connor into the bedroom.

The bed still sits, clean, untouched and lonely, in the center of the room. Connor takes pity and sits on the edge, the dip of his weight rumpling the sheets just a little, enough to prove that someone lives here. His own joints creak a little as he does so but he ignores them, smoothing a hand along the soft texture of the fabric. He'll stay here tonight, rejoicing in its comfort even if he still doesn't really need to sleep. It's a habit and, even after forty years, Connor found he was often unable to find a reason not to. Cherish curls up on her bed opposite him, tucking her snout into a fold and covering her face with a paw. Connor smiles.

The walls feature more time lapses he's taken, including Hank's favorite. It's nothing special, not even a really a timelapse, the sun setting over the Detroit river, their house as it drifted slowly by from where they had been sitting in boat on the waterfront, slowly getting bigger and bigger as the current rocked them. The sun had set into darkness as they made their way back, just one light on in the window beckoning them home. It fades out after that but Connor remembers the warm doggy kisses that greeted them at the door, the big bellied laughs and Hank's arm heavy across his hips.

A big piece from Markus sits on the other wall, above the headboard. It was a gift for their wedding, though Connor had half a mind to refuse it. It was Markus who had made marriage possible for them. That was a gift all in itself.

 _A robo-Jesus original. I wonder how much this is worth,_ Hank says as he gently taps a nail into the wall.

_You should really stop calling him that._

It's abstract in nature. Connor had asked what it meant but Markus only shrugged.

_Maybe you two can give it a meaning._

Connor watched and watched, but he never had figured it out. Sometimes he can see shapes in the distance, buildings or a forest perhaps. It depends on what he's thinking about. The white and blues dance together, perhaps like music. In some of the brushstrokes he can pinpoint the color of Hank's eyes in bright sunlight. Here and there, swatches of russet that could be Sumo's fur. Sometimes in the background, he can see a dark oak that could be the color of his own hair, the clear blue and yellows of the LED he had never removed, a reflection staring back at him, carrying the memories just like he is. Sometimes, when it's night and he's laying still in bed, the room illuminated in the soft blue of his thoughts, he can look up and see faces. Smiles and laughter and soft kisses on cheeks. A quirk of his outdated software, no doubt, but it's a good dream to have.

It's his favorite painting.

Connor leaves Cherish to her nap. The living room is bathed in shades of crimson as the sun slowly sets, rays of light dragging their fingers gently along the walls, vibrant blue shadow filling the places they cannot reach. He starts a little aroma diffuser, the smell of coffee slowly creeping into the air, carried on the cool breeze from the window.

He misses Hank. Sometimes he misses him so much it hurts. But a message pops up in the back of his mind. Several, even.

_Welcome back to Detroit, Detective._

_Happy anniversary, Connor. I hope you're doing well._

_Hope your flight went well, we'll miss you here. Come back to the DC area soon._

_Hello, Connor! I see you're back. We should call, I have something to show you._

_Sorry to bother you on your first day back, sir, but there are a couple of people who need to meet with you._

He smiles and leaves the ones from work for later, writing back to the others. He's happy to be back, he'll miss them too. It's nice to be reminded that there are people who care and think of him. People who he helped, people who helped him. A community who's waiting for him outside the shell of this house, who filled the walls with light and laughter.

But there's one more memory he wants to revisit. Just one more. The TV turns on with a boisterous noise, screen unfolding from nothing as soon as he thinks of it. He queues up a movie, something old that he's seen a hundred times then sinks down onto the couch. The warmth of Hank's arm slings casually around his shoulder and he leans into the memory, though it's little more than a wireframe now. He preserves the feeling. Easy, rumbling laughs, gentle smiles, those great bear hugs that had taught him affection, taught him love.

Just one more movie.

The snow outside reflects the flickering light, the reflections filling the night with color. The little vacuum comes to rest back in its base, content with a job well done. The bones of the house creak less, its veins running with warmth if not for the android then for the little dog, awake and now draped over his lap. Life has returned to the old wood and metal. Hopefully, it will stay for a little longer.


End file.
